


Encrypted Communications

by Slyboots



Series: Partners [1]
Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: Alien Sex, Body Image, Developing Relationship, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Emotional Sex, Exhibitionism, Improvised Sex Toys, Light BDSM, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Masturbation, Medical Kink, Open Relationships, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, Phone Sex, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Robot Sex, Shyness, Size Kink, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Valve Fingering (Transformers), Verbal Humiliation, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:40:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21642337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slyboots/pseuds/Slyboots
Summary: Surreptitious commlink calls from Knock Out and Breakdown's relationship over millennia.
Relationships: Breakdown/Knock Out
Series: Partners [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1577944
Comments: 11
Kudos: 90





	1. Velocitron

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written as a one-off, mostly to experiment with Cybertronian junk. Added some additional material later.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’ve got your vital statistics on my end, Breakdown, so don’t get too mouthy. Mm. Seventeen tons. I can see it.”
> 
> Knock Out knows how to make his new plaything squirm.

“I pulled up your specs. Real heavy-duty. Aren’t you just something?”

The connection crackles, the video feed juddering and cutting out. Breakdown curses, thumping his commlink; in the unshielded slums of Delta, an errant radiation pulse can fry the whole array.

Knock Out’s voice is maddening. “You’re still coming through loud and clear, big boy. Stretch out. Show me those struts.”

The berth’s deserted this early. Breakdown glances round, all the same.

“Aw, you don’t wanna see that--” Nervousness pulses in his fuel lines; his engine purrs. He shifts his bulk, berth creaking.

“I showed you mine last time. Now you show me yours.” There’s a commanding edge in Knock Out’s tone.

Breakdown shivers. He’s still picking glossy wax off his chassis; Knock Out’s talons left delicate gouges. Breakdown traces them, remembering the heat of his touch, how his servos bit deep in the heat of the moment--

Remembering how Knock Out moaned, uninhibited and sweet--

But now he’s controlled, tight. “Come on, Breakdown. Don’t be _shy_.”

That does it; his engine revs. Breakdown never could resist a challenge.

“You asked for it.” He leans back, grunting, spreading his thighs with a hydraulic whirr. He’s too heavy to move as silently as a racer. He wonders if Knock Out felt his motors buzz under his talons.

He smells of motor oil, of mine dust, of hard labor.

Knock Out’s red paint gleams still on his hips.

“Oh. Oh, you’re _massive_.” Knock Out coos. Breakdown imagines his optics widening with cold delight. “That plating’s fifteen centimeters thick. Maybe twenty. That’d hold up to just about _anything_.”  
  
It’s impossible to miss the leer. Breakdown’s fuel lines burn. He glances away, into the dingy darkness--  
  
\--but there’s nowhere to escape Knock Out’s voice, washing over him like the heat of a furnace.  
  
“I bet I couldn’t even make a dent in you.”  
  
“You’re a real aficionado.” Breakdown grits his dentae, feeling too exposed by half. “You got some kinda kink?”  
  
“I’ve got your vital statistics on my end, Breakdown, so don’t get too mouthy. Mm. Seventeen tons. I can see it.”  
  
Breakdown flushes. He’s heard it all before-- _heavy-duty, thick-treads_ \--but rarely with such naked lust.  
  
He’s not sure he likes Knock Out, all slick swagger and too-keen gaze. He can picture that gaze, pinning him like a specimen--  
  
\--but he likes Knock Out’s voice, and his chassis prickles with arousal. The air seems thick, hazy.  
  
“Your racer buddies know you like ‘em big?”  
  
Knock Out brushes it off with a cold laugh. “All muscle, too. Look at those arms. You could crumple me, easy.”  
  
His fans whir, venting the heat rising through him. “That an invitation?”  
  
“Pull back your plating.” Knock Out’s voice is hungry. No. Carnivorous. “I want to see what you’re packing.”  
  
It’s been a while since he’s felt so _wanted_.

The berth’s dark, suffocatingly warm, the night heavy with dust and exhaust. Breakdown tastes his own lubricant on the air, sweet and faintly coppery. He’s getting wet already.

“Slag,” he breathes, shifting again, his legs falling open. “You, uh, you liking the view?”

“I’d _pay_ for this.” Knock Out chitters. Breakdown imagines him languid and bored, running a delicate servo over his own chassis. “Plate _off_. No dawdling.”

Breakdown growls. “Hey. Easy.”

He reaches down, lets thick fingers linger on his plating, hands shaking a little with humiliation or desire. The heat’s pulsating, leaking through his plate, coiled like a spring ready to explode out.

A spark leaps from his plate to his finger. Breakdown grunts, pulls back. The pain’s heady; he tastes it as much as he feels it.

Electric blue lubricant leaks through his seams, puddling on the berth.

It’s been a few meta-cycles. Yesterday barely took the edge off.

“Thinking about me?” Knock Out purrs.

Breakdown’s voice catches. “Yeah.”

“I can almost smell you, all raw and dirty, all over me--”

Something clicks on the other end. He wonders if Knock Out’s pulling his own plating back. He remembers the sweet clean smell of racer lubricant, the biolights glistening round Knock Out’s inductor, the staticky crackle as they interfaced.

Breakdown presses deep. The plate sinks back, sliding with a soft hiss into his groin. Beneath his mesh is glowing faintly, sticky with lubricant. His terminals click, discharging into the air, faster and faster as his fingers brush around the hot metal rim of his plating. Breakdown’s fingers tingle.

“Mm.” Knock Out vents sharply. “You’re so wet. I can almost taste it.”

Breakdown shudders. By now Knock Out ought to be in his lap, grinding away--

Knock Out’s invisible presence is as sharp as the static. The crackle grows louder, staccato, Breakdown’s terminals dumping charge. His whole frame’s hot with electricity.

His jack leaks electrode gel, salty and bluish, mingling with his lubricant. Breakdown’s fingertip brushes over the slit in his mesh, coming away soaked.

It’s been a few meta-cycles--

Knock Out’s voice cuts through the haze in his processor.

“You’re making a real mess, Breakdown. Look at you. Someone’s going to have to clean that up.”

Knock Out groans a little at the thought. Breakdown shivers.

 _He’s_ got dazzling Knock Out moaning and rubbing his terminals--

“I bet you taste just amazing. Look at that cute little jack, all soaking wet. I’d like to lap that up.”

“Aw. You don’t wanna--”

But his hand moves unthinkingly, fingertip pressing into his jack. He’s not quite ready, the mesh still resisting, aching, sickly and hot. Lubricant and electrode gel trickle down his finger.

Breakdown’s hips buck, joints squeaking.

This isn’t his first time at the racetrack--

\--but he’s never done it for an audience. With Auger he interfaced in pitch blackness, lit only by their biolights, fingers fumbling on metal damp with mineshaft condensation; Crosscut he brought to overload with hands and glossa alone.

 _So dirty,_ Crosscut whispered, half in disgust, half in arousal. _So crude, so brutish, stinking of mine--_

Now Knock Out watches, ravenous and rapacious.

“Push it in,” breathes Knock Out, his voice rising a little. “All the way.”

There’s a frantic note in his voice. His synthesizer stutters.

It occurs to Breakdown that he’s got Knock Out by the wires.

“Can’t do it,” he rasps, venting hard. “Look at that. Can’t even get it in there--”

He calculated right, and Knock Out groans again.

“You’re so big--”

Breakdown brushes a fingertip over his jack again, spreading warm lubricant. His terminals clatter frantically.

One by one, biolights click to life. Breakdown’s mesh glows dimly, the gold of his eyes, lighting his fingers.

“So big.” It feels taboo, more intimate than a curse. “You like that?”

“You can’t even get your fingers in your _jack_ \--”

He should be insulted, but Knock Out’s tone is worshipful.

And it’s not humiliation that surges hot in Breakdown’s core.

“So damn big,” he rasps instead, raising a fingertip to his mouth. His lubricant tastes--

\--mineral, yes, of mine and sweat and hard labor.

Uncertainly Breakdown sucks his finger clean.

It tastes good.

He slumps against the berth wall, his engine humming.

“How’s the view?” he gasps.

“Primus, you’re breathtaking.” For all that Knock Out still sounds almost controlled, though he’s venting hard, too. “You’re a marvel. Forget heavy-duty. You’re a _tank_.”

Breakdown’s terminals crackle, discharging hard. His lights flicker on, almost blinding in the cramped berth; Breakdown screws up his optics.

“You’re losing control--” Knock Out pants. “You hunk--you big brawny _beast_ \--”

Breakdown groans, shaking his head a little.

“Put it in.” Knock Out’s voice shakes. “Just one finger. Feel the stretch. No--don’t take out your inductor--”

He thinks he could get used to taking orders from Knock Out.

Breakdown spreads wider, raises his hips from the berth to make room. Presses his finger against his warm tight jack.

He grits his dentae again, feeling himself open, hot and prickling with static. His mesh squeaks, stretching.

His finger slips, by fractions, inside.

“Frag--” growls Breakdown, overwhelmed. The pressure’s maddening. His whole hand is alight with static.

“Good boy,” coos Knock Out. “Hold it there. Really feel it. Aw--” There’s a leer in it now. “You’re squirming--”

And he is. A low moan escapes Breakdown.

“Now relax.”

He’s no more capable of resisting Knock Out than he is of protesting. Breakdown clenches his jaw. Bears down.

The mesh clinks, links pulling taut.

“Don’t hold back, big guy. Make some noise.” Knock Out’s voice is wicked.

Breakdown whimpers, really whimpers. Every twitch of his servo sends a wave of shock through him, brushing inner nodes. His terminals blaze, clicking too fast to follow.

Knock Out tuts. Vents. “I said--”

Breakdown grunts through his dentae. He’s gushing around his finger, tasting hot steel and lubricant. With every motion he discharges static.

“Did you hear me, Breakdown?”

Breakdown nods, not trusting himself to speak.

“Not good enough,” snaps Knock Out. “Did you hear me?”

Breakdown’s optics cycle off. For a moment there is nothing but the taste of exhaust, the burn of his mesh around his finger.

“I heard you.”

“Good boy,” purrs Knock Out, maddening, intoxicating. “Now rub your terminals. I want to hear that big old motor _roar_.”

Breakdown rubs his terminals, his thumb popping with charge. His whole groin’s lit up in soft golden biolight. And his motor’s growling.

Venting heat, moving as slow as he dares, he works his finger in and out. The tip hits some hot node just inside his jack, stretching it, and Breakdown moans--really moans. His plating burns.

With every thrust he pushes a little deeper. Breakdown’s thumb circles his rim.

“I knew I wanted you--” Knock Out breaks off, and Breakdown imagines him finger-deep in his own jack, optics hazy. “As soon as I saw you. You’re magnificent. Better than magnificent. Seventeen tons. You’re a titan. And Breakdown, you’re going to learn--”

The connection crackles. Knock Out must, Breakdown guesses, be close to overload. The thought sends a wave of charge down his struts.

“I _always_ get what I want--”

Breakdown’s finger plunges into his mesh.

He’s overloaded dry before, his inductor still tucked away. Still it hits him by surprise.

Something pops, like a flashbulb behind his optics. Breakdown hears himself roar, lights flashing, free fist pounding the berth.

“You’re _beautiful_ \--” The connection frays, dissolving for a nanocycle into static.

Breakdown’s finger slides free, the finish blue with lubricant. His jack aches already, sweet and warm like a fresh bruise.

He slumps back, venting waves of heat. Kliks pass. One by one the terminals die away, though the air’s still heady with charge.

“Clean yourself up,” whispers Knock Out, crystal clear in his audial, all business again. “I can’t wait to see you again, big boy.”

Breakdown grunts. It could mean anything.

He takes his time sitting up, surveying the damage. His jack’s throbbing, lubricant and conductive gel still dripping from the slit. Searingly blue lubricant stains his thighs, his berth, his finger to the first knuckle. He tastes Energon--he must’ve bitten his glossa, he realizes.

He’s a mess. In the close air he smells unmistakably of sex, of cheap and mineral miner-lubricant.

Breakdown’s core throbs with humiliation.

The connection winks out. Breakdown lies alone in his berth, willing his fellows not to return.

Longing to have Knock Out say _big boy_ once more, with desire, not contempt. 


	2. Vos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breakdown’s voice crackles, the signal tinny. “I’m thinking about you all the time, Doc.”

“Planning to call me  _ doctor _ for the rest of eternity?”

The washracks’ pipes belch superheated steam. Condensation trickles down Knock Out’s fender, puddles in his seams. Every link in his mesh aches.

Breakdown’s growl vibrates through his commlink; it’s more felt than heard. “You earned it. Doctor.”

Not for another three centuries, not while he slaves away in residency, wearing his polish down to the raw metal--   
  
But it’s too much effort to argue. Instead he purrs, cycling off his burning optics, resting his faceplate against the warm tile. “Say my designation. Knock Out.”   
  
He imagines Breakdown’s crooked grin, the warmth in his gold optics. “ _ Dr _ . Knock Out.”   
  
“Good enough, you brat.” Lazily he traces his seams, his vocal synthesizer clicking. His hydraulics relax, the pressure easing under the jets of steam. “Where are you? Somewhere private, I hope. Getting off shift?”   
  
Breakdown’s voice is weary. Breakdown’s voice is often weary. “Just got up. I have a couple breems. How long you got, Doc?”   
  
“Long enough.” The Dreadnought Memorial Hospital’s aerodynamics floors are deserted after hours; Knock Out’s alone with the generators’ rumble, the damp and blinding heat.

The “MAINTENANCE-DO NOT ENTER” sign will buy him a joor, if he’s lucky.   
  
If he’s unlucky--   
  
\--well, some fortunate janitor will get the show of his lifetime. Knock Out’s terminals prickle at the thought.   
  
He reaches into subspace. Considers, his processor hazy with static.   
  
Pulls out a rag, a hand buffer, a tub of half-melted polish.   
_  
You can’t beat the classics.  _   
  
He presses the rag to his faceplate, sensors whirring. It smells faintly of lubricant, of acrid polish, of spilled fuel. A heady mix. To Knock Out’s exhausted processor, a dizzying one.   
  
But Breakdown’s scent, sharp with exhaust and sour-salty with fuel impurities, faded from the cloth kilocycles ago. He searches his memory banks, imagines burying his faceplate in Breakdown’s mesh, feeling his engine rumble--   
  
“Talk to me, big boy.” He vents, long and slow. Flicks the buffer on. Presses it against the plating between his thighs. “Give me something to work with.”   
  
The hum of the buffer sends a dull thrill through him. He leans back, letting his mind drift.   
  
“Uh--” Breakdown’s voice crackles, the signal tinny. “I’m thinking about you all the time, Doc.”   
  
“Knock Out.” It’s testier than he intends.   
  
In truth, the pride in Breakdown’s tone is adorable--   
  
\--the pride and the  _ submission _ \--   
  
\--but he’s heard  _ doctor _ too many times this cycle, from histrionic Seekers and yapping nurses, and  _ Knock Out _ too few.   
  
“Right.” And then, quieter: “It’s been too slagged long.”   
  
Knock Out works the buffer in tight circles. Beneath his plate, terminals click arrhythmically to life, discharging little zaps of static. It’s mechanical, mindless.   
  
“Well, obviously.” His optics swim. He cycles them off. Focuses on the heat, the buffer thumping over his crackling terminals, Breakdown’s deep voice. “Tell me what you miss. Tell me what you’re  _ doing _ .”   
  
“Sure--gimme a sec.”   
  
Breakdown’s plating squeaks audibly as it retracts. Knock Out shivers. He’ll oil that next time they meet, work the oil into Breakdown’s mesh, run his hands over thick thighs and solid plating--   
  
“I miss your hands,” growls Breakdown, right on cue. “I miss--uh--when you scratch me up when you overload--”   
  
Knock Out’s servos twitch inward. One terminal discharges hard, a sickly-sweet jolt running through his servo. He swallows.   
  
“Keep going.”   
  
“And the noises you make. You’re real loud.” Breakdown’s voice catches. He grunts. Moans a little.   
  
Knock Out imagines a fingertip sliding into Breakdown’s tight jack, stretching him open. “You’re getting better at this.”   
  
He knows Breakdown so intimately, after centuries. The hesitation in Breakdown’s voice paints the picture: Breakdown’s grinning, flushing, looking away.   
  
“Got a lotta practice.” And then, suddenly, as if emboldened: “Doc, I’ve got a problem.”   
  
Knock Out’s audials prick up, intrigued. “Go on.”   
  
Breakdown’s motor purrs. Knock Out imagines him slumped in his berth, stroking his terminals with fingers dripping with hot lubricant; his own terminals spark, making him gasp.   
  
“I’m overclocking just thinking about you, Doctor. Getting all wet and ready for your inductor--”   
  
The hunger in his voice, the raw animal need, makes Knock Out’s own motor whirr. His hand twitches; his hips buck forward, against the buffer.   
Servos clumsy with eagerness, he undoes his plating. His inductor slides out, plates telescoping with a series of soft clinks, the jet-black finish gleaming in the dim light. At either side of its base his conductant reserve sacs bulge, swollen and ready.   
  
Breakdown grunts, audibly straining. “Frag--I’m leaking lubricant all over.” He vents rapidly, shallowly; Knock Out can almost feel the heat of his engine. “Getting all sticky. Anything you can do about that?”   
  
Knock Out works polish into the rag. His biolights wink gently on, a ruby-red glow streaming from his inductor.   
  
“Well, Breakdown. Since you asked.”   
  
With a finger wet with polish he rubs his conductant sacs, whimpering. Pressed between steel mesh and polished talon, the silicone feels impossibly soft, even vulnerable; the conductant surges through his tubing, the reserve lines in his inductor stiffening. A bead wells up on the tip of his inductor, soaking the swollen nodes and staticky terminals.   
  
The vibrations rumbling over his jack, still shielded by its own plate, travel through his groin. His conductant sacs ache with fullness.   
  
Disconnected images flash through his processor: Breakdown roaring wordlessly, tied spread-eagled to his berth, his lights flashing spasmodically as Knock Out buries a whole hand in his jack; Breakdown’s inductor leaking conductant as Knock Out massages his sacs, Breakdown flushing and shuddering, his hands cuffed behind his back; Breakdown mounting some shadowy, faceless mech, burying his inductor in a jack sweet and yielding, as Knock Out strokes his aft and thighs--   
  
Knock Out wraps the rag, damp and hot, around the base of his inductor.   
  
“Have you been a good boy, Breakdown?” he breathes. “Overloading your system regularly? It’s very important to maintain everything--” He breaks off to shudder. His exhaust, clean and almost sweet, mingles with the steam, condensing on his fender and headlights. “How often do you frag your system, Breakdown?”   
  
And then, as Breakdown hesitates:  “ _ Tell the doctor, Breakdown _ .”   
  
It’s delicious: sprawled in the hospital washracks, jerking his inductor for all the world to see, dissolute and depraved, calling himself  _ doctor _ as he rubs his conductant sacs. He imagines his preceptors’ faces.   
  
He wonders--too late--if he’s on camera.   
  
Breakdown sounds almost shy. “Once a solar cycle. Maybe twice.”   
  
“You big overclocked beast,” purrs Knock Out, dropping character. “I always admired your interface drive. You could go all night.”   
  
With one hand he flicks the rotary buffer to a higher setting. With the other he works the rag slowly, servos tightening, around his inductor. He tastes the polish on the air, his sensors prickling.   
  
“I’m not there to examine you, Breakdown--” It’s an effort to keep his voice level. Breakdown must know he’s exhausted--Breakdown who  _ never _ initiates their games, who plays along stumbling and awkward, Breakdown who called him  _ doctor _ with a kinky little purr in his voice--   
  
“Just tell me what to do, Doc.”   
  
Knock Out sucks in steam. “Well, it’s standard to start this exam with one finger in the jack. But I bet you didn’t wait for my say-so.”   
  
Breakdown’s voice is strained. “Yeah.”   
  
“Put some lubricant on a second finger. Push it in.” He waits, listens for the zing of Breakdown’s mesh pulling tight, for the squish of fingers in lubricant.   
“Nice and easy. Give it a second to adjust.”   
  
“Way ahead of you.”   
  
Bluish sparks crackle around Knock Out’s inductor, his terminals gleaming; their copper glows in the radiance of his ruby biolights. His hand shakes on the rotary buffer. Whining, he grinds against it.   
  
With his other hand he jerks his inductor. It almost aches, prickling with charge. A dribble of conductant gel mingles with the black polish, oozing over the rag.   
  
He smells polish, gel, his motor heating up. His mouth waters.   
  
“You--” He pants. “You should feel some pressure on your sacs. Curl your fingers inward. Feel your nodes responding.” In another tone, a hungrier tone: “I bet you’re getting  _ real _ wet and sloppy.”   
  
“Oh yeah.” Breakdown’s panting too. “I’mma have to shower again before shift--”   
  
“Got a nice healthy lubricant tank there.” Knock Out grins, dentae clenching. “How’s your jack doing? Think you can go for three fingers?”   
  
He presses the heel of his hand down, squeezing the base of his inductor; the pressure on his jack, through his mesh, makes him shiver. He’s wet too, golden lubricant leaking through the seams in his crotch. His inductor spasms in his hand, erect and needy.   
  
“Don’t know. It’s gonna be a kinda tight fit--”   
  
Knock Out’s voice drops to a throaty rasp, challenging, taunting. “I’ve had my whole  _ fist _ in there, Breakdown. Your mesh is real--yielding. Plenty of room even for you.”   
  
Breakdown growls. “Three fingers coming up.”   
  
“Good boy.” Knock Out vents, hips bucking off the bench, his exhaustion gone. His whole body’s crackling with charge. “Gently. Gently--”   
  
“I can take it rough, Doc,” groans Breakdown. “Aw--scrap--that’s  _ tight _ \--”   
  
“You’re going to feel pretty full.” The domineering sneer’s leaking into his doctor-voice. “It’s going to hurt a little. Just ease it in there. Deeper.  _ Deeper _ . You should be able to feel your sacs from the other side--”   
  
“Think I better check on my inductor, huh?” Even straining, Breakdown’s voice is playful.   
  
“Take it out.” Knock Out gasps again, throwing his head back. “If I were there, I’d get a measurement--give it a nice rubdown--”   
  
He hears Breakdown’s plating slide open. This time it whirrs smooth as Knock Out’s own.   
  
“Take that big old thing and give it a good polish--” Knock Out’s dentae clench. “Slag!” His optics cycle off involuntarily. His whole body judders.   
  
He’s close. His conductant sacs tense up, ready to unload. The air around him buzzes, smelling faintly of ozone, the humidity picking up his charge.   
  
“Feels good, Knock Out,” says Breakdown in a low sweet voice. “How you doing?”   
  
And hearing his name in Breakdown’s growl pushes him over. One of Knock Out’s sacs spasms, his inductor crackling with blue sparks. Conductant hot with electricity spurts across the tile floor--   
  
\--he’s crying out, he realizes, his HUD breaking up into bright primitive flashes of color--   
  
Knock Out’s processor resets as he throws his head back.   
  
Breakdown’s saying something. Knock Out’s lying on the tile, his other sac deflating slowly, his inductor spilling current and conductant across the floor. The rag lies stained with polish across his crotch, smearing black over his silver finish. Knock Out can’t bring himself to care.   
  
It reminds him, in an odd hazy way, of Breakdown’s finger-marks in his fresh paint.   
  
“--feeling better?” From the ragged edge in Breakdown’s voice, he’s close too, teetering on the edge of overload. “Slag, I love hearing you--”   
  
“Finish yourself off, Breakdown,” Knock Out whispers through lips still a little numb from overload. “In. Out.”   
  
They vent in synchrony. He hears Breakdown’s bolts squeak, his rivets straining.   
  
“In. Deeper. Out.”   
  
“--love it when you give me orders,” mumbles Breakdown, half-coherent now. It dissolves into a low pained moan; the commlink crackles as his terminals chatter.   
  
“Of course you do.” Knock Out cracks a grin. “Now. We’re going to count down, Breakdown, because I can’t wait around all day. Ten. Nine. Eight--”   
  
He overloads on “seven,” with a yell that rumbles through Knock Out’s frame, a yell that half of Kaon must have heard.   
  
Knock Out sits up, though it’s an effort to pull himself upright, and waits.   
  
“Feeling better?” he asks after a cycle.   
  
“Oh yeah.” Breakdown vents hugely. “Woulda been better with you there. How long you got left in Vos?”   
  
“Don’t remind me. Too long.” Knock Out crawls under the washrack’s jets, letting the scalding water pound against his chassis. The polish dissolves, oily black waves washing down his frame. “Taking scrap from jumped-up little Seekers. Getting pushed around by battleaxe nurses. Everyone flies. And they hurt themselves in the stupidest ways. You’d hate it.” He squeezes the last of his conductant out, pushes his inductor gently back into its housing, slides his plating back. Rinses the lubricant from his jack, a little numb from the rotary buffer’s deep vibrations. “It’s not a residency. It’s institutionalized torture.”   
  
Breakdown chuckles, warm as the washrack, warm as Knock Out’s slowing motor. “Yeah. Same old, same old over here. Decontamination job in the Acid Waste.” His voice goes hard. “Another squad lost three guys to Scraplets last cycle. You’d hate it.”   
  
“Undoubtedly.”   
  
“When’s your next cycle off?” Breakdown doesn’t dwell; he never dwells for long.    
  
Not openly, at least. There’s a brooding edge in his voice still as he speaks. “You oughtta come up here. For me. I miss you, Knock Out.”   
  
“Mm.” It’s not a no. “Just a few more vorns.”   
  
“Yeah. Get some recharge.”   
  
He pauses, the commlink’s disconnection screen flashing up in his HUD. His voice is even, detached. “Stay safe out there, big guy.”   
  
Yet Breakdown’s laugh sends a bolt of longing through the deepest parts of him.  
  
“Always do, Doc.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't see a whole lot of Knock Out topping.


	3. Kaon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I hope someone’s fragging you, Breakdown. I hope they almost live up to me.”

\--and it’s so easy to forget--

“You still fast?”

“Still the undisputed all-Velocitron champion. Often challenged. Presently disqualified on a minor technicality about a civil war. But  _ never _ bested.” And Knock Out’s voice is the same, across the centuries, still so cocky and still so young-- “Are you still a charmer?”

The ache’s dulled a little, over the vorns. You have to live with it, to carry it, or you’ll go mad. “Oh yeah. The Decepti-femmes love me.”

“I’m sure none of them live up to me.” Knock Out’s voice comes through too crisp, too clean, as if he’s whispering into Breakdown’s audial. “Ugly word. Decepti-femmes. The whole thing’s ugly.”

“Knock Out.”

“Yes, yes, we’re being monitored--Soundwave sees all, hears all, Soundwave has holos of all of us dinging our diodes--” It’s the old, vulgar Knock Out, and that hurts somehow more. “You’re my  _ conjunx _ . My inductor’s getting rusty.”

“You’re sure this is a secure frequency?” Breakdown checks the keypad, listens for a klik at the door. Around him the nightclub dressing room molders genteelly. It’s been a weapons depot, a brothel for camp-followers, the site of summary executions of Autobot loyalists. Most recently, all three. But the proprietor went down in the DJD’s last purge, and Breakdown’s alone now--

\--but for Knock Out purring in his audial. And that, at least, is familiar. “What I’m sure about is that there’s a big strong Decepticon who needs some special attention.”

The matter-of-fact way Knock Out says  _ Decepticon _ chills his core.

“Send me a holo,” he mutters. “I want to see your face.”

The data packet’s compressed--data’s precious now, with the Grid offline. Yet it’s so real he can taste the lubricant and oil on the air, feel the searing heat rolling off Knock Out’s engine. Knock Out’s plating’s pulled back, his inductor soaked with conductant. His faceplate’s frozen in mute ecstasy.

Breakdown vents, his motor thrumming. Bites down. A bit of the old tingle creeps back through him; his servos curl. “Still the prettiest thing in Vos. Polyhex. Wherever you are now. You take that for me?”

“Mm.” It’s indifferent. “I hope someone’s fragging you, Breakdown. I hope they  _ almost _ live up to me.”

The berth smells still of spilled lubricant, of hasty interfacing and cheap polish. If he offlines his optics he can almost picture Knock Out sprawled beside him, his biolights casting a languid red glow across still-immaculate plating. Knock Out  _ laughing _ , smoking a cy-garette, stroking his inductor as if there’s no hurry in the world. He can taste the clean polish Knock Out favored (or still favors?), feel the condensation warm and slick on his chassis, kiss his mouth and drink up the sultry smell of him--

He pushes back his own plating, as he’s done a thousand thousand times. Knock Out’s hands were dextrous; Breakdown’s are clumsy.

“Talk to me,” he says into the humming air. Over the skylight, a Seeker patrol’s passing overhead, their shadows falling across the berth. Breakdown focuses on nothing, on stroking his terminals. They respond, as they’ve always responded, his fingers tingling with charge. “I’m here, Knock Out. I’m off patrol duty and I’ve got a breem. Lemme hear your voice--”

“Next time you get off duty,” purrs Knock Out, almost languidly, “I want you to pick up one of those femmes. Take her to the nastiest little dive bar you know. Show her a real good time. Suck on her inductor like you’d suck on mine--really  _ slobber _ on it--really get her motor running.”

“You never were the jealous type.” Images flicker, half-realized shadows, through his processor. A faceless femme, her inductor buried in Breakdown’s aching jack, grunting and moaning as she thrusts deep--deep--deeper--; Knock Out, his chassis smudged with cheap wax, a bite in his vocal synthesizer, sprawled in the berth of a Kaonian nightclub, Knock Out  _ degraded _ ; a pretty mouth around Breakdown’s inductor, a finger probing his dripping jack.

His inductor stirs beneath its plate.

“War’s hell, Breakdown.” It’s a rebuke, of sorts, and Breakdown shivers, at Knock Out’s shamelessness, at his own arousal. It’s a relief when Knock Out switches tacks. “I’ve seen your command on the propaganda vids.” Only Knock Out would call them propaganda, without a hint of tact--Breakdown smiles despite himself. “Motormaster. You’re both so  _ big _ . Two big stinking trucks guzzling Energon rations and belching exhaust--”

It’s affectionate, still, but there’s an edge in it that takes him back.  _ Big _ . Half mockery, half whispered worship-- _ heavy-treads _ , Knock Out called him in the berth, that first night on Velocitron--

“Two rough tough army mechs.” Knock Out chuckles. “If I were there, I’d have you both eating out of my servos. Or Motormaster--hey, what a  _ name _ \--fragging your jack nice and slow, getting you both all sloppy--”

“Slag,” mutters Breakdown. He reaches for an abandoned tube of synthlube. Not for the first time this quartex. It’s the stress, or the deprivation drying up his lubricant tank. “You really know how to talk to a guy--”

The synthlube goes on cold. He shivers, sliding a finger into his jack. He’s not quite ready; the stretch aches like the lump in his throat, like the leaden weight beneath his chestplate.

“Yeah. Okay. Keep going, Knock Out.”

“Kinky boy.” There’s real affection in it. Knock Out’s known for a millennium how far he can push. “Or maybe that flashy little speedster, Drag Strip. You like speed, don’t you, Breakdown?”

Yes. Yes, he likes speed. He swallows hard, his nodes aching and his jack clenching tight and hot round his finger, and it’s all the encouragement Knock Out needs.

“That rusty little knock off. He  _ wishes _ he were me. No sense of humor. Think he’s a plug or a socket?”

Breakdown groans, jaw clenched. His motor’s picking up, his terminals clattering with charge; Knock Out’s off to the races, debauched and callous and still so familiar, and it’s all Breakdown can do to hang on.

“Socket,” decides Knock Out. “I always thought your inductor needed some TLC. Take it out.”

Breakdown’s inductor slides free, already dripping with conductant. It’s thick in his hand, his biolights warm and buzzing beneath his fingertips. His conductant sacs bulge, swollen, sensitive, expectant.

Even after a millennium, Knock Out knows him too well.

“Blow out Drag Strip’s tires for me,” drawls Knock Out. “Make him bawl. You’re a real beast, Breakdown. Big M doesn’t know what he’s  _ got _ . All that pent-up overclocked energy--”

He moans, low and sweet.

“Or maybe he does. You caught  _ my _ roving optic, back on the old planet.” Knock Out’s voice rises, almost shaky now, and Breakdown grunts as he rubs his inductor. “Oh, that’d be juicy.  _ My _ big handsome conjunx in Megatron’s berth--”

“ _ Knock Out _ .”

The casual disrespect hits him like a shockwave, sends electricity racing down his struts. If Soundwave’s monitoring the frequency, he’s as good as scrapped. Breakdown vents, shudders--

\--but perhaps he’s grown desensitized to filthy barracks talk, to the greasy snickers and leers on the Decepticon infantry frequencies, to jokes about the Prime’s tailpipe ( _ bet it sparkles! _ )--

“Hey, Knock Out.” There’s a dangerous note in Breakdown’s voice, strangled and overclocked. “Couple of the guys ask me about my conjunx.”

Knock Out vents audibly. He sounds unsettled, uncertain. As if the fantasy’s leaking. “Oh-- _ oh _ \--”

“Velocitronians are all  _ fast _ , huh? Easy? Drag Strip asked me,  _ you sure he’s not under some Seeker by now? _ ” It floods out of him as he jerks his inductor, metal slapping metal sticky with lubricant, and his motor’s turning over, a vicious heat washing through him as his hands shake. “Slag, Knock Out, at least  _ someone _ would be touching you--tasting you--sucking on your pretty inductor--”

Knock Out whimpers. Moans, stifled. (Into his hand, Breakdown realizes with grim satisfaction.)

The war’s worn the shine off all their finishes.

The images bombard his processor like bullets: Knock Out languid, spreading his legs for some sleek and faceless Seeker, lazily stroking battle-crazed wings; Knock Out dragging a fresh-forged recruit, his chassis still hot from his first firefight, into the barracks washracks; Breakdown cupping Knock Out’s faceplate, stifling his gasps, feeling him groan and vent and struggle against Breakdown’s fingers--

Later, he’ll be ashamed. Later he’ll wonder--

“--slag,” Breakdown growls, dizzied by the brutality of his own need, the overwhelming force of it, “when was the last time I touched you?” He’s gushing, soaking the berth in turquoise lubricant. He shoves a second finger into his jack, then a third, without preparation; the force of it makes him groan. It’s been meta-cycles. Longer. The pressure on his conductant sacs is unbearably sweet. His nodes buzz, aching exquisitely. Breakdown’s optics cycle off, and a low agonized groan rises up in him.

The Seekers buzz overhead again; searchlights sweep the stained concrete walls. Breakdown inhales, tastes his own lubricant, tastes old Energon and spilled oil and cordite--

“Someone oughtta make you scream, Knock Out.”

Knock Out’s old holo flashes up on his HUD, unprompted. It’s the look in his optics, transported and wild, that pushes Breakdown over.

He bites down, doesn’t yell. His inductor throbs, sparks, metal scraping metal dripping with conductant. It’s the sparks that nearly blind him, in the dark--

\--his indicators are flashing, and anyone outside the club will know his position, and for this he’ll pay later. The rage flushes out of him, the tension floods away, and he feels hollow as a gutted carcass (though his motor’s red hot and roaring)--

His chassis is wet with condensation. Conductant trickles from his inductor, still hot with charge. Beneath the armor he aches, feeling the grit caught in his joints, the wear on his pistons, the dull ache where Motormaster’s fists struck home not joors before.

He relaxes against the berth, vents hard, calmer than he’s been in decacycles. For a moment, he imagines, he’s still the conjunx Knock Out remembers.

“You finish yet?” he mumbles. “You didn’t even scream--”

“Discretion’s the better part of valor, Corporal.”

And Breakdown imagines, for a crisp and aching instant, that Knock Out hasn’t changed at all.

“Hey. I’m gonna see you again. Sometime soon.” He hopes it’s true. “The Prime’s gonna be scrap metal this time next solar cycle. I’mma flush my brake fluid into his Spark chamber.”

Knock Out’s laugh is harsher now; perhaps a stranger wouldn’t have picked up the unease in his tone. “Listen to you, smooth talker. Getting some rough edges there.”

But perhaps Breakdown’s a stranger by now, too, and Knock Out as guarded and callous as he ever was--

“Yeah, well. Makes two of us.” It’s colder than it has to be, and he regrets it at once, but Knock Out doesn’t argue. “You still in Vos?”

“That’s need-to-know information.” And then: “They barely tell  _ me _ where I am. Doc in a box, that’s all I am. You’re still in Kaon.”

It’s not a question. He imagines Knock Out stroking a data clerk’s pauldron, pulling him close, hissing  _ find me Breakdown of Velocitron _ with a buzzsaw held to the clerk’s throat--

“That’s classified.” It’s a yes. “Listen, I gotta go in a cycle. Wildrider’s getting off patrol. Need to clean up. Stay strong, huh?”

It’s no  _ I love you _ \--or even  _ I loved you _ . But Knock Out will understand the sentiment--

\--or he would have, once. Breakdown strains to catch Knock Out’s next words, as the Seeker patrol’s lights sweep the boarded windows and blaster fire crackles in the distance.

“Don’t let the malfunctions grind you down. And  _ try _ to stay in one piece.”

A data packet pops up on Breakdown’s HUD, compressed and anonymized, as Knock Out terminates the call.

As he wipes down his chassis, steps from the warm darkness of the abandoned club into the steamy Kaonian night, Breakdown opens the file.

His spark flares in his chest. Condensation trickles through the seams in his armor, chills his mesh. Down the street, someone’s shouting, and without thinking Breakdown draws his missile launcher from its housing in his shoulder.

On the public line he barks, “Stunticon infantry patrol, designation  _ Breakdown _ , responding to disturbance in sector F-19--”

But in the corner of his HUD the photo remains. The encoding’s Velocitronian, 3375-bit instead of 4096-bit. A token gesture toward privacy.

The photo’s time-stamped to the end of their call. After a millennium, after two planets and four cities, Knock Out’s smile still slices through Breakdown’s armor like a hot knife through oil. His smile hasn’t changed at all. Nor has his signature: _To my favorite_.


End file.
